


Air-Pollution Purple

by willgrahamchops



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Killjoys, Fluff, Gen, Holidays, M/M, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:40:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willgrahamchops/pseuds/willgrahamchops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Killjoys set up a refugee camp for the holidays instead of wasting time finding presents -- except, Poison has always been a rebel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Air-Pollution Purple

**Author's Note:**

> For [this](http://anon-lovefest.livejournal.com/67956.html?thread=9753716#t9753716) prompt on anon_lovefest.

It’s technically winter in the zones, but the heat in the tent is moist and stifling; the breath of several hundred people bounces off the PseudoPlastic siding at back into the fray. Poison goes out for air every couple of minutes, scared he’ll suffocate otherwise.

Nobody else seems to mind; in fact, they’re having the times of their lives. Never before has Poison seen a congregation as big as this one -- he doesn’t count the drugged-up masses in the city as people. No, these kids are lucid and numerous. There are tables of people crammed right up to the entrance, everybody laughing and talking and stuffing their faces with anything available. The free food -- a pallet of kibble Show Pony had snagged off the back of a truck and then saved a little too long -- was gone after the initial free-for-all.

In the back are makeshift cots made of crates topped with sacks of sawdust, and Poison’s bed. Technically, it belongs to all of them, but Poison uses it most. They sleep in shifts, not only to keep watch, but also because Poison is bony and uncomfortable and always hogging the damn thing.

They’ve been rotating it out back there, too. It’s become an operating table of sorts, covered with the leftover material from the tent siding. There’s a bearded guy on there now, shirtless, with a black shirt bunched up around his shoulder to soak up blood. He’s fighting with the doctor about something, gesturing wildly with his good arm. Ghoul is sitting beside the bed, occasionally saying something but mostly eyeballing the doctor’s medicine case. Poison steps closer.

“I don’t want any fucking drugs,” the bleeding guy spits. Under the beard, he actually seems pretty young. Maybe even younger than Poison was when he left.

The doctor is trying to convince him to take an oral anesthetic, but the kid seems to think it’s gonna numb his brain too. Poison doesn’t blame him; he was on BL-Med’s standard plan at one point, and it fucked him up like the rest of them. He’s had his share of drug-free surgeries, too, but he knows better now.

Poison intervenes.

“Listen, kid,” he says. The guy shuts up and stares at him wide-eyed. Poison’s been getting that a lot since people started showing up -- it’s not his fault his description is on every broadcast between here and the city. “You don’t have to take that, but don’t do it dry unless you have to.”

The guy doesn’t say anything.

“Ghoul,” Poison says, “can you grab some liquor from the back?”

The doctor is glaring at him like he just suggested the leech treatment, but Poison doesn’t give a fuck. Not to say he isn’t grateful for the guy showing up -- no, it was a fucking miracle that he did, with supplies, too. Poison just isn’t going to give the kid drugs he doesn’t want. He’d be no better than them.

Ghoul comes back with a flask of 80 proof, which he immediately presses to the kid’s lips. He’s reluctant to drink at first, but then Ghoul kind of pours it over his mouth and he has no choice if he doesn’t want to waste precious alcohol.  
Poison gives him a few seconds, and then lifts the shirt and upends the rest over his open wound. The kid screams until Poison stuffs the shirt in his mouth, at which point he bites down like his life depends on it. After another filthy look, the doctor sets to work cauterizing it.

What the hell happened to this guy? It looks like a stab wound of some sort, but the dracs’ fancy fucking plasma-blades would have cauterized on contact, and probably burnt the shit out of the rest of his arm, too.

“What do you want for the pills?” Ghoul asks the doctor, voice low and serious.

“What?” He looks up from the wound. “I use them. I’m not selling.”

Ghoul shrugs and gestures to the patient. “This guy doesn’t seem to need them.”

Poison would like to see how this turns out, but he’s getting lightheaded again, the tent closing in around him, so he leaves.

There’s nobody out there, because it’s windy today and the tarp walls keep the sand out of people’s eyes, food, whatever.

He begins pacing the perimeter out of habit, checking each stake meticulously. The metal spikes are about two feet long, made out of bent-up parts. Unusable shit. Each is driven through a suction patch and deep into the sand.

There’s more than drab city concrete out here. Not much more, but suction pads won’t stick to sand, anyway.

Battery City looms on the eastern horizon. From out here it almost looks like a safe haven, a reprieve from the harsh winds and the sweltering heat, the freezing nights and the shitty food.

Then he remembers huddling in the ally between his school and the plant next door, scared out of his mind and smoking to ease the shaking. He’d stopped taking his pills a few months before, and those black market cigarettes were the only thing keeping him going for awhile. Fuck, he wishes he had one now.

He finds a loose stake. It’s on the lee side of the tent, so the wind couldn’t have blown it over; therefore, there must be a deep layer of sand before the soil. There’s an unused suction pad right next to the faulty one, so he can just move the stake.

Poison kicks at the sand under the good pad to test the ground, and, when that does no good, he crouches down and shoves his arm as far into the sand as it will go. He was right; the whole patch is pretty damn deep -- he must be atop a small dune.

That’s how Kobra finds him: elbow-deep in the sand, feeling around for dirt. Poison can’t see him properly for the blinding desert sun. All he can do is squint up at his silhouette, but it’s enough to tell Kobra is laughing at him.

“Stake came out,” Poison says. He’s not in the mood to laugh right now.

Kobra’s face comes into focus when he crouches. It only takes a few ancillary pokes in the sand for him to catch on. “Think it’ll happen with the rest of them?” He asks. This is one of the many reasons Poison loves Kobra -- he’s quick to learn and practical as hell. Problems aren’t problems when you’ve got Kobra around.

“Nah,” says Poison, withdrawing his hand and brushing it off, spraying sand in his own face. His eyes are so dry from this damn heat, he doesn’t notice if it gets in them. “Wind’s dying down anyway. They won’t blow out. I do want to replace this one, though.”

“There’s a shovel handle in the tent. Broke when we were digging for water.”

Poison snorts, but he’s concerned. “Why the hell were you digging for water?”

Kobra’s face softens, which is reassuring. “We found a shallow patch,” he says. “Fuckin’ Jet was telling the kids about a pool he used to visit in the city, and you know how they get out here -- the ones who haven’t seen it. A hole was the next best thing.”

Poison smiles but doesn’t have much to say. He’s never been in anything bigger than a bathtub before. He remembers the pool in his parents’ old complex, sure, but he’d been too scared to swim in it. By the time Kobra convinced him, he’d already stopped taking his pills -- and, well.

“Point is,” says Kobra, “the shovel handle is longer. It’ll hit dirt.”

They don’t speak much as they drive it in together, Kobra using his gloved hands once Poison’s start to get raw. Poison stomps the last couple of inches into the ground, getting grime all over his pretty fucking boots.

Not like it matters. He’ll spit-shine them again tonight. Poison doesn’t have a lot of nice things -- his boots are nice, and he likes to keep them that way.

Kobra coughs up dust, mouth buried in his sleeve, trying to force the grit out of his lungs. It’s everywhere, this far from the city. Sand and dust and wind, wearing things down and making the world matte and dull. Wearing people down.

Not my boots, thinks Poison. That’s one thing he has going for him.

“Wanna go inside?” He asks once Kobra’s fit has subsided.

There’s dust caked in Kobra’s eyelashes, gathering by the second. He shrugs. “If you want.”

Poison doesn’t really want to go back in there, but the sand will rub his skin off if he doesn’t get in the tent soon. Plus, Kobra is still coughing like a madman, and he’s not going to admit the dust is bad for his lungs any time soon. Poison makes a mental note not to let Ghoul out here if he can help it; it would fucking kill him.

At a table in the corner nearest the entrance, Ghoul has dumped a bottle of pills into his hand and is meticulously examining every one before placing them back in the container. They lock eyes, and Poison’s lips twitch.

“I thought they weren’t for sale,” he says, sitting down.

Ghoul shrugs. “Traded for a little bit of holiday spirit,” he says.

Before Poison has a chance to ask what that means, there are strong hands on his shoulders, lifting him out of his seat. Normally, he’d have his gun out in an instant, but he knows those hands as well as he knows his own.

“Going to help set up the tree?” Jet asks, spinning him around until they’re inches apart. He smells of dried spice and something that might just be rubbing alcohol, though Poison hopes it’s some sort of moonshine. Jet has obviously been celebrating.

“There’s a fuckin’ tree?” Ghoul asks in disbelief.

“Well,” Jet shrugs, “obviously not a real one. Just come look at it.”

Just then, there’s a brief shout and a quick scuffle. It is not hard to find the “tree,” considering it is on fire.

“Get the fucking thing--”

“I’ve got the blanket!”

And it’s out in an instant, the tree-shaped hunk of wood and scrap smoking slightly. It’s decked out with hot fluorescent light bulbs -- the obvious source -- and ringed at the bottom with more leftover tarp.

Poison smiles and shakes his head. “Doens’t look like you need any help,” he says.

“Of course we do!” Jet claps him on the back. “We don’t have a star yet.”

The kids watch over his shoulder as Poison draws meticulously in his sketchpad. Paper is a precious commodity out here -- in fact, the back of the star is already covered in doodles -- but this is a special occasion. He uses charcoal because it’s easy to find, and he likes the way it smears all over everything he owns. It proves he’s an artist.

Kobra cuts it out with his switchblade and Ghoul tries to hang it. He’s almost tall enough to reach -- almost.

There are no presents this year, but the company is enough for Poison. Sure, the crowd makes him uncomfortable, but he’d sort of rather do this than exchange scavenged trinkets with the guys. They all agreed not to give each other anything; instead, they helped Doctor D set up this little refugee camp. It’s pretty far out so as to avoid detection, but that hasn’t stopped these hungry kids from coming. They’ll take it down at the end of the week or when they get busted. Whichever comes first.

The wind dies down with the fading light. When the rest of the guys start setting up extra beds, piling together every scrap of fabric they can find, Poison steps outside. It’s too noisy, too crowded. He’s never liked people that much.

He’s brought a blanket of his own -- the tattered thermal he uses every winter, because it’s hot during the day but cold as hell on December nights like this. Poison spreads it out on the dusty earth and carefully removes his boots. He sleeps in them most nights, when there’s news of patrols in the zones, so that he’s ready for action. He’ll put them on again tonight, but first:

Poison unties the bandanna from his leg and spits in it. He hasn’t seen polish since -- well, ever, but he knows it exists. They don’t have it out here, so spit is good enough. The city kids don’t even have leather anymore.

There’s a rustle somewhere behind him, and Poison is immediately on guard, ready to punch some motherfuckers. It’s just Kobra, though.

“Too hot in there?” He asks.

They both know that’s not the reason, but Poison nods anyway. He stops polishing when Kobra sits down, making room for him on the blanket.

Poison smiles and nuzzles closer. He’s still warm from the tent.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Asks Kobra.

It takes Poison a moment to figure out what he’s talking about -- the sunset, of course.

Sunsets are fucking incredible out here, because it’s not just orange and pink. The sky lights up with greens and blues and vibrant air-pollution purples, cold yet inviting, like the neon signs in a million underground clubs.

“It’ll fucking kill you one of these days,” Poison says. He pauses for a moment, really taking in the view. “But it is pretty.” He sighs, long and loud but not particularly unhappy. Then he puts his boots back on, because it’s a lost cause.

“You want to sleep out here with me?” He asks.

Kobra nods. “It’s too hot for me in there too.”

“Alright,” says Poison. He makes no move to adjust the blanket or otherwise prepare for sleep. Not until the sun is down, at least.

He turns to Kobra, watching the shadows on his face deepen with each passing second. Poison is usually the first to admit that his brother looks nothing like him, but he thinks he sees a twinkle of something in his eye -- something that reminds him of himself. A defiance.

Kobra catches him staring but lets it go on for a few more seconds before Poison turns away.

“I got you something,” Poison says, completely unprompted. He wants to break the tension.

Kobra snorts. “You weren’t supposed to get anybody anything.”

“I know,” he says, flicking the hair out of his face impatiently. “I’m a fuckin’ rebel. No rules. Loose cannon.”

That makes Kobra snort. “Of course you are.”

Poison just kind of flashes him this shit-eating grin until Kobra gets fed up and asks.

“Go ahead, spill it.”

It’s in the bottom of his satchel, so it takes a bit of digging, but when Poison finally gets a hand on it, it seems to have kept pretty well. Still smiling, he passes it.

Kobra turns it over once in his hand, utterly confused. “What the fuck is this?” He asks.

“It’s an apple,” says Poison. “A real one.”

“What the fuck,” he repeats. “I thought apples were white.”

Poison waggles his finger. “Nope. The insides of apples are white. They’re always skinned when you get them in food packs. People think the skin’ll make you sick now, but they’re wrong. It’s only the chemicals they spray ‘em with. All over the apple bushes.”

“Apple bushes?” Asks Kobra.

“Mmhm.” Poison nods sagely. “That’s what they grow on.”

Kobra wrinkles his nose. “How do you know there’s no chemicals on this one?”

“Because Show Pony picked it for me. It was growing at a little outpost in zone three -- one with climate control. They didn’t spray it because the bush was only for decoration. If you look at it, you can tell ‘cause it’s really small.”

Kobra turns it over again, weighing it. It fits nicely in his palm, about half the size of a spray paint canister.

“They’re supposed to be about as big as a kid’s head,” says Poison. “This one’s shitty, but it won’t kill you.”

With a little hesitation, Kobra licks it, pink tongue darting in and out in half a second.

“Just bite it,” says Poison. “It’ll go bad in a few days anyway.”

Kobra visibly steels himself and bites through the skin with a loud crunch. The exact moment the meat hits his skin is evident, because his eyes widen and his nose twitches. “It’s sweet,” he says.

“Is it?” Poison asks distractedly. He’s watching the juice run down Kobra’s chin.

“Yeah,” says Kobra. He pauses, takes another bite, and then carefully sets the apple down on the cleanest part of the blanket. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t get you anything.”

Poison scoffs. “Good. You weren’t supposed to.”

The light is almost completely gone, only a thin strip of bluish-gray just above the horizon, coupled with the soft glow of Battery City in the distance. It’s getting colder.

Kobra shifts forward and wraps an arm around the small of Poison’s back, pulling him close until they are almost chest to chest. He’s still warm, still solid. A constant.

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this,” Poison whispers. He realizes now that the tent is mostly silent, and this moment suddenly seems private. He doesn’t specify what he dragged Kobra into, but Kobra knows.

“I don’t blame you,” he says. “It’s better out here.”

“You say that--” Poison starts, but Kobra cuts him off.

“Gerard,” he says.

The name sends chills down Poison’s spine, makes his teeth clench.

“I’d rather be here with you than in the city with packets of apple innards.”

Poison smiles, soft and quiet. “Thank you,” he says. “For following me.”

They fall asleep together, Gerard’s head on Mikey’s chest.


End file.
